Broken Chord
by Misty Satin Dream
Summary: Chapter 5 now up. If anyone out there is reading, this was to get me back in the game. It has been so long.
1. Something's Amiss

Heeheehee! sings Master & Commander ate my brain, ate my brain...lalalaaaa! Well, this is only a prologue, but let me know what y'all think otherwise I'll just be like...screw it. Yeah it's like 2 in the morning, sorry I'm so crazy. By the way, I don't own these dudes. I'm pretty sure that's why they call it _fan_ fiction....

Broken Chord  
  
On the first day, the officers of the H.M.S. Surprise looked at one another in shock, fear lurking sinisterly behind.

The next morning, Lieutenant Tom Pullings stood helplessly in charge of the quarterdeck in the midst of a miserable fog. Spirits bogged under the low, grim clouds, not lifted by the bell signaling change of the watch.

On the sixth day, Stephen Maturin entered the Great Cabin, which he immediately regretted. Despite Killick's efforts with the candles, the room was lifeless and taunting without the bellow of Jack Aubrey's hearty laugh. Even his beloved 'cello was clammy to the touch, like a pale ghost of memory.

After fifteen days, the crew shuffled aimlessly around the decks. Most even ignored their grog to stare out across the monotone sea. Killick was himself so troubled that he vocalized, much louder than usual, how he "would blast the bloody frigate to damnation" the next time he laid eyes upon it.

And on the 28th day, as Stephen stared at the ship's log in disbelief that it had been nearly a month, the familiar voice of Lord Blakeney declared "Ship, ho!" She displayed a white flag.

Despite the newly born thunder, Stephen hurried to the deck, carrying a blanket and a bottle of laudanum, should the situation prove dire. But the real storm was on deck, as Pullings and Mr. Allen snapped at one another in a fury.

"You forget your place, Mr. Allen, it is my decision."

"No, sir! No—you are suggesting opening cannon fire on a ship running white. Not only is it dishonorable, but it would be against the Captain's judgment."

"You fret over honor, sir, at a moment such as this? Do their actions appear honorable to you?"

"This is prisoner exchange, sir! Not an open invitation to start a battle."

"No, Mr. Allen, this was a prisoner exchange. They have clearly violated the rules of war. What I see on that deck is as much of an invitation as we could hope to get."

"Tom—"broke in Allen, dropping formalities and his tone. Pullings straightened at this, seething. Yet Allen was his elder seaman, and commanded respect. "Tom, if you beat to quarters now, you'll kill him for sure."

"T'would be better than letting them slink away unpunished." Both men swiveled 'round as a bottle shattered behind them. The laudanum snaked out around the doctor's feet as he saw, on the deck of the approaching boat, what was left of Captain Jack Aubrey.


	2. Freedom of the Soul

_Terribly, terribly sorry about the extrenely long wait since my last posting. I'm so awful--everyone's all interested and I do nothing. Well, here we are finally! Enjoy please R&R!_

Stephen had awoken that morning to Jack's joyous laughter on deck—his boyish laugh as he only had when his ship sped across the sea, racing the dolphins. The doctor had hurried from his cabin to see what all the fuss was about, forgetting breakfast for the time being. His Sick Berth was empty, his supplies replenished, and as he climbed up to the quarterdeck, Stephen was embraced by the most peculiar beam of sunlight.

A blue known only to God was the sky—and cloud free as well. The sun was blinding, but not unpleasantly so as there was a strong wind that kept the heat from festering. The _Surprise _was racing along at eleven knots, her crew thrilled by the beauty of the day and the freedom of the water. _And her captain?_ Stephen asked himself. At the top of the mainmast with Tom—a perch Stephen still avoided, despite Jack's daily chidings to "take in the view."

"I can see quite all there is to see from here, thank you very much Captain Aubrey."

"Ah, Doctor. It is the freedom of the soul up there that is worth the climb."

Stephen sighed happily. It had been a long while since the _Surprise _was so healthy in crew—in spirit. Even Killick abandoned his grumbling while he offered Stephen a cup of coffee.

"Good morning, Bonden." The coxswain beamed a great smile at the physician.

"Top of the morning _to you_, Doctor. Couldn't be a finer one in months."

"What are your orders?"

"Wherever she roams today, sir. Wherever she roams. Them's the Captain's 'xact words!"

Sipping his coffee, Stephen turned from Bonden just in time to see Jack land back on the deck with a broad grin.

"Stephen! You finally join us. Such a fine day—true sailor's weather."

Before he could respond to his old friend, who Stephen was actually quite relieved to see so at ease, Tom Pullings came up behind with the Captain's coat and hat.

"Shall we beat to quarters, sir?" Jack shrugged on the uniform, chuckling as Stephen's head turned all around, looking for a reason to man the ship.

"Not today, Tom. Leave her at ease for our company." Tom saluted.

"You're expecting company, Jack?" The Captain led him to the larboard side of the humming ship, glass in hand.

"One of our own, it appears, the _Turmoil. _A fine ship—just above our class. But not very efficient. Her Captain takes more than his fair share of the grog..."

"And her doctor not much more useful than poor Higgins, I've heard." Jack snorted.

"Well then, she's well below our class isn't she?"

With the winds pulling her alone, the _Surprise_ was nearing her Navy mate in a quarter of an hour. The crew clung to the larboard side, chanting out a shanty that all British ships would know: ..._For we've received orders to sail for old England..._

It was then that Captain Aubrey knew something was wrong. The _Turmoil_ was well within ear shot, her deck covered in crewmen, and they were not singing back. In fact, no sound at all came from the other ship. Not even commands from the officers.

Jack walked swiftly to the bow, eyes examining the neighboring ship. Coming up right behind Tom Pullings, he whispered stealthily in his ear:

"Tom, I want you to take your gun crew below and man the larboard battery. Do not call out to them—talk to them a few at a time." Confusion in the young man's eyes, but he trusted Jack Aubrey far too much to delay his orders. Both of them worked the railing, quietly ordering the men below.

The _Turmoil_ was now beside the _Surprise_, showing off her slightly longer figure. Silence on that deck ended as a rope flopped onto the wood; the British colors had been struck. Jack's eyes narrowed in instant anger and widened again in instant panic as the French flag took its place.

"BONAPARTE!" echoed in the gun fire. Jack hadn't had the moment to order the remaining men on deck to fall flat. It was full two minutes that could have been two decades before the _Surprise _fired back.

Captain Aubrey ran the deck, shouting orders to Bonden, pushing Stephen's head, which had poked out of the lower decks, back down. Jack couldn't feel himself breathing his head spun so. It occurred to him suddenly and violently that he would never lose more men than he would this day. The deck already looked a graveyard.

Using her momentum from the strong winds of the morning, the _Turmoil_ swung hard to the left, attempting to bash Aubrey's ship. She was close enough now to board and board the Frenchman did—in furious droves.

Again the _Surprise _floundered, unprepared. Jack unsheathed his sword and marched into them, suddenly thinking of the British crew that was dead or locked up. Rage swelled in him, spilt over, so that the heaviness of a bullet in his arm did not register.

The larboard battery fired miscellaneously. Jack knew they were out of ammunition already, dragging as much as they could from the starboard guns. This battle would have to be won on deck.

"Stand fast now, lads. Take 'em as they come. Don't go to them!"

Before long, the ruthless crew had returned the losses on the French. The Royal Marines had nearly a dozen French officers pinned between the _Surprise's_ railings and their bayonets. The _Turmoil_ had long since stopped firing, munitions exhausted from another recent skirmish—one they obviously lost.

Jack had been in the middle of the French swarms since it began, swinging his blade in a circle for nearly an hour, continually striking someone. Fatigue was claiming his muscles and his battered body that he struggled to ignore. In a moment of relative calm, when he was not being charged with a battle cry, Aubrey held his sword at his side and turned to look over the _Surprise. _

There was a cackle— a cocky and menacing laugh—that preceded the thump on the back of Jack's head and the descent into blackness.


	3. Awakenings

Chapter Two: _Awakenings _

The retreat was silent; there were no calls or signals for the French to withdraw. Those who were not dead on the deck of the _Surprise _stepped swiftly backwards, fending off the British as they went. She dropped her boarding planks hastily into the blue-green below and caught the wind. Soon officers and able seamen alike were watching the _Turmoil's_ stern speeding away, and a great cheer swept the crowd. They were accustomed to celebrating victory but today they were happy to just drive them off.

Tom Pullings did not shy from raising his voice in relief, but there was a distinct absence he had to search for. No orders were called to him or the crew: no orders to follow her, to clean the deck, to carry the wounded below. Running his fingers through his damp hair, Tom eagerly searched for his captain.

" Pass the word for Captain Aubrey..." the lieutenant forced through a clenched throat. The call echoed down the frigate and back to him in mere seconds. Pullings took his breath a little slower for a moment, fearing Lucky Jack had unluckily become a patient of Dr. Maturin.

Tom made up a few orders to get the crew busy, but he dared not urge the ship forward until he knew the Captain's situation and the damage sustained. Ducking out of the warm sunlight of mid-afternoon, the first mate sought the sick berth.

Stephen Maturin wiped the perspiration from his brow with the back of his bloodied sleeve. The last critically wounded man had been seen to, checked and rechecked. As usual, he remained uninformed about the progress of the battle, but from the relative quiet, he deduced with a thankful mind that it was over.

The doctor was applying pressure to William Mowett's gash across his shoulder when Lieutenant Pullings shuffled into the room. Stephen looked up, then straightened his back, ruthlessly searching the young man's face and worried expression.

" Tom..."

" Doctor, was the captain badly wounded?" Since Jack hadn't crawled out of any corner of the _Surprise_ in so many minutes, Tom was certain he would find him here. Stephen's countenance suggested otherwise.

He raced through the last hour: each patient, each ailment. Stephen knew he had not treated his dearest friend without knowing it. Surely he would remember...

" Tom, I have not seen the captain." Stephen began slowly. "I'm positive he never entered the berth today."

A nightmare of an answer; Tom could only chortle in confusion, stumbling over to every hammock.

" Doctor, this is absurd. He hasn't been on deck for some time. The captain _must_ have come to you for some reason." It was then that Stephen rolled his eyes and shook his head.

" We forget ourselves, Mr. Pullings. The captain is not a frequent or happy visitor to my layer. He never takes leave with me; I must always search him out in his quarters." The confused dread that had gripped his shoulders a moment ago leaked away. Tom's broad grin followed the doctor down the corridors to the Great Cabin.

* * *

Jack was now painfully aware, as he slowly came to, that his left arm burned in an achy fire. Mutterings whirled around his head, as his body jerked and bumped. He was being dragged.

"Ste...Stephen?" Jack moaned, expecting his friend's comforting reply and healing hands. And, as usual, they came without delay.

" Yes, Jack. I'm right here. Il se reveille. Que devrions-nous faire ?" Jack's fuzzy mind flickered into alertness. _**Why was Stephen speaking in French?**_

" Stephen, what in Heaven's name—" His words were sliced short by a hearty slap across the face. Finally the captain's eyes snapped into focus: three foreign faces were above him, pulling his massive form down the wooden steps of an unfamiliar vessel. One of them, who Jack took to be his attacker, smiled with his three remaining teeth devilishly.

Captain Aubrey was sincerely wishing he had not awoken.

* * *

"Jack? Is everything alright?" Stephen called in between knocks on the Captain's door. "Ja—" The door suddenly sprung open, a confused and annoyed Killick on the other side.

"Which the captain is not in here..." the steward explained. Stephen pushed past, examining the room with a scientific eye. Indeed, none of the usual disturbances Jack leaves in his cabin were there.

" You haven't seen him at all in the last few hours?" Stephen pressed.

" 'ow could I've seen 'em when I was in 'ere the whole blasted time?"

Tom Pullings stood in the doorway, unable to flinch a muscle. The nightmare had resumed. The doctor, thoroughly exasperated by Killick's attitude, caught sight of Tom's fraught face.

" Are you certain we've searched everywhere, Tom? It's possible—"

"Everywhere," the lieutenant whispered. "_Everywhere..."_ He found the strength to pivot 'round and climb the stairs into the air. Tom gasped for it as though he'd been smothered for many minutes. Flinging forward, Tom's eyes searched the relatively calm waters for splashing.

" Mr. Pullings, is everything—" Mr. Allen put a hand on Tom's shoulder. The younger man could only shake his head, staring at the wood beneath his feet.

" He's..."

"What is it, sir?"

"The captain," Pullings coughed out. Allen seemed to slump down two inches. Tom told him everything that had happened—rapidly and out of order. But the elder seaman was not baffled: he believed he had discovered an explanation.

" No one saw the captain...killed for certain, correct? And what would the French want with his body? Mr. Pullings, if the Captain were dead, I do believe we would have proof of that..."

" He could just as easily been tossed overboard, or fallen over injured and unable to swim. I think we must decide on our next course of action, Mr. Allen."

" Such haste may be just as destructive, Mr. Pullings." The two men were at odds; Tom could only blink at his folded hands.

Meanwhile, a frozen Stephen fought for breath in his best friend's cabin. Remembering every sonata, every stitch, every squabble, he crumpled into the nearest chair. His reeling mind tried to promise him it wasn't true. He didn't believe it.

The Navy had just lost its bravest and most gifted captain.

The midshipmen had just lost their tutor.

The doctor had lost his only sanity.


	4. Torpedoes

Torpedoes

Every thought that torpedoed through Captain Jack Aubrey's head was one of resistance—demanding that he make any attempt to struggle. He was embarrassing himself, scratching his pride raw with such an inability to stand up for himself and more importantly, England.

Jack Aubrey attempted to hone his mind and pay greater attention to his foggy surroundings. The lower deck he was so rudely dragged down to was deserted except for the two men—the two _unarmed_ men—gripping him by the biceps. Jack remained limp as his destination came before him.

Leather bonds hung from the ceiling. Jack's will decided firmly that he had no desire to comply with the struggled attempts at hoisting his body into the restraints. Sensing that his left arm was stronger, Jack snapped it sharply into one captor, tossing the other off with a forceful shove. Surprise and relative intoxication made the two Frenchman slow responders.

A few well-placed punches freed but exhausted him. Jack crawled into the shadows behind his nemesis the staircase, which he had to thank for the three lumps he felt on the back of his skull, and took stock in his situation: weaponless, still fatigues from battle no doubt (_how long ago was that?_) and unable to recall how he had come to be on this French-speaking, British-built ship. He remembered bright sunlight, racing winds, French colors, gunfire and Stephen's voice.

A burning arm.

Jack peeked under his jacket at the black circle of dried blood surrounding a round hole through his limb. Moaning, which did not belong to him, filled the small compartment, altering Jack that his "keepers" were awaking. Another quick check around for any defenses proved fruitless and Jack made his way up the stairs, cautiously sticking his head above deck.

The bright sunlight of his memory was gone. The sky was a blustery gray; the clouds were thick but very high. No footsteps thudded through the wood and Jack could see no persons forward or aft. He stepped out, crouching low, his eyes tunneling for something sharp or loaded and made his way toward the back of the vessel.

There were three officers clustered near the back rail. Jack's eyes bounced between the men and a bucket lined with pistols maybe seven steps from his current shadow. When one Frenchman pulled out his glass to scrutinize the horizon, Jack crept swiftly to guns, selecting two weapons and promptly dropping his right-handed gun to the deck.

Hot white agony sent blinding sparks across his vision. Fingers clenched and kneaded his bullet wound. Turning, Jack steeled his features and found himself face to face with a decorated officer. "Good day, Monsieur," produced the heavy accent. "I am sorry your stay as not been more satisfactory to you so far. If you would please, follow me."

Bayonets poked him in each kidney, not even allowing him the thought of turning back to the pistols. All too soon, Jack Aubrey was returned to his prison, this time successfully borne to the leather bracelets, but not without a worthy fight. His thrashing and swearing took seven men to quell.

French words rushed around him; the deck cleared, save for the yellowish, all-too-pleased-with-himself grin from the decorated officer who introduced himself as Captain Laurent Farrar, captain of the French ship _Maryse _and currently the _HMS Turmoil_. At Aubrey's narrowed, indignant eyes, Farrar merely chuckled.

"It is little use wasting your energy on anger over this ship, Monsieur Aubrey. You can be proud that the battle between us was a draw."

"I would hardly call firing at another ship in His Majesty's Navy a draw, _sir—_" A stinging, loud slap across the jaw ended Jack's sentence for him and cracked his neck painfully for him, too.

"You will find, Monsieur, that it is wise to not speak until I ask you to do so. There will be plenty of time to speak in the coming days—I assure you.

"Now, you must be curious as to how the _Turmoil_ came to be engaged with the _Maryse _and what became of the British crew, and so forth. The remaining crew members are aboard in the ship's brigg. They are checked on occasionally, but they are of little use to us. You see, Monsieur Aubrey, the crew of the _Maryse_ is France's best kept secret. Or I _was_, I suppose."

The Frenchman allowed himself another chortle and Jack's evident outrage and refusal to stare anywhere but his enemy's eyes.

"The crew has never even come close to defeat. They will shift the course of history for certain, for now war between England and France is almost a guarantee. The loss of the _Turmoil_ and the infamous Jack Aubrey will not stand in your Navy, I imagine."

"His Majesty's Navy does not respond to—" This time it was a powerful fist to gut. Jack surged against his restraints, obliterated by rage but stifled by his weak physical power. Farrar may have been of a smaller frame but he could match Jack Aubrey's strength, at least for the time being.

Jack's labored breathing filled the silence loudly. Only when he was able to meet Farrar's eyes again did the Frenchman jump back into narrative.

"As for our encounter with your precious _Surprise_, you can thank your status on the Naval stage for their survival. You see, Monsieur Aubrey, the reason for our attack was not to secure your ship as well, for that would make the imminent war much too…dull. However, you will prove a most plentiful source of knowledge before we part ways, no?"

Jack's breathing was threateningly deep and strong in the face of Farrar, who sized up Jack's complacency in the Englishman's fierce eyes.

"You will get your war, Farrar," Jack Aubrey risked. "You will get your war onboard this ship and no other."

"Well, we shall see in the morning, won't we?" With that, Farrar ascended to the upper deck, leaving Jack Aubrey ruthlessly restrained in utter darkness.

* * *

Stephen was startled out of his dreamless sleep by some commotion out in the Sick Berth.

"Higgins—what the devil?" Stephen adjusted his glasses, gawking at the disarray his incompetent second had made of his materials in the last few hours. Bottles, powders, and linens lay strewn about, recklessly tossed in an evidently unsuccessful search.

"Oh, so sorry, sir—it's just Joseph Blander, ya see sir. His dressin' needs changin' and I didn't want to wake you after all the time you've been up."

"Higgins, in the future please keep in mind that I should be far less distressed should you wake me than make such a disaster as all…this." Stephen let out an exasperate sigh, gathering fresh bandages. Higgins nodded and scurried off to find his grog, no doubt relieved that Stephen was back in charge.

Stephen wove his way through the still-full cots, even two days after the battle. He had seen to the captured French crew members as well, covertly questioning one of the young ones on the location of Mousier Aubrey. The lad had denied all knowledge of the British captain, but praised his choice in ship doctors.

Joseph Blander had been in and out of conciseness due to the severe crack his head had taken when falling to the deck. Steven steadied the hammock of the able seaman, gauging his temperature with one hand. The wrappings around his crown were indeed soiled (at least Higgins could determine that much) and Stephen unwound them quickly.

The man beneath his hands squirmed, two large pupils suddenly looking back at Stephen.

"Ah, Mr. Blander. You rejoin the waking yet again. Your head seems to be making considerable progress, thanks to your continuous sleeping, I should think." Blander managed a small grin before asking after the victor of the battle.

"I suppose I'm not really sure. The French retreated rather suddenly I understand, leaving a great deal of their men behind. The officers are having quite the time of keeping the two crews separate and civil, I should think."

"So then, the captain…" Blander trailed, eyes drooping heavily. Stephen stiffened at the mention of Jack's title. He still struggled to remind himself that his dearest friend was not just a few stairs above him.

"What about Captain Aubrey?" Stephen put to him, defensively but with earnest.

"He was brought back on board then?"

"What do you mean, Blander? Brought back from where?" Blander was slipping; Stephen gripped his shoulders tightly. The dark eyes widened a little, focused weakly.

"I saw 'im aboard the _Turmoil_, sir, just before I was knocked around so. Looked like the Frenchies were…retreatin'…"

And sleep stole Blanders from Stephen's frantic mind and torpedo-torn gut.


	5. Illusions

Illusions

To steal a few moments of peace, to be gently rocked by the sea sleeping his cot—Jack Aubrey could think of nothing sweeter. Sighing deeply, he heard a knock on his cabin door, and before he could respond, Stephen's scent, Stephen's cool hand on his forehead had materialized by his side. When he opened his eyes, he saw only blackness, but before the panic bubbled into his throat, he heard Stephen's raspy whisper, "Hush now, joy. All is well. You mustn't strain or worry. I daresay you'll be good as—_mettre les canons à l'arrière, rapidement!_

Grunting to true consciousness, Jack Aubrey's body flung suddenly, caught on his restraints, twisting him alert, crying out. Before his dazzled eyes, Stephen's visage tunneled into blankness, leaving Jack blinking at his grim imprisonment.

_To steal a few moments. _

These visiting visions were his release and greatest torture, for when they left Jack Aubrey felt he faded one minute faster, as though the clock of his life jumped two-three seconds at a time now and he would expire all the quicker—a thought increasingly comforting.

It was several minutes before his addled mind registered the commotion above, and, gratefully, several more minutes before he felt the needle-sharp sensations of his numbness, his nerves in and out of salience.

All went quiet above again—at least to Jack-whose senses lapsed into an under-water-like state, hearing and vision muffled. He reflected on the visions he often had, longing to slip back into them.

In the dark, apparitions would appear—memories visiting him like ghosts in the shadows—and for a few moments the throbbing numbness of his tied-up extremities, the screams of his shoulder blades from his arms held so far and so long above his head, would dissolve and the foreground of his dim consciousness would be graced by Stephen's face, quizzical and warm as they played an adagio, or the sea would spread beneath him, at first seeping up through the gray-brown planks he stared at endlessly, neck drooped in agony, despair. Seeping, rushing, and then rolling in gallant crests, the vast Atlantic out to the horizon, a glorious four o'clock sun blazing low in the sky shooting ruby arrows of color into the clouds. The wind would blow his sweaty curls from his forehead and he would bellow a great belly laugh in sheer joy of his home on the water. Just for a moment. Just for a moment until the apparition would vaporize and the water's waves would harden back into the unforgiving floor of the _Turmoil._

Past hunger and thirst, past pain but unwilling to concede to oblivion, Jack exercised naval discipline over his faculties when he could, reciting his ships lines from bow to stern, naming the items around him sometimes having to be very patient with himself, simple words and descriptions failing to break through the spreading fog in his brain.

Either his hearing emerged from its cloudy state, or the ruckus above him resumed, but this time his brain feverishly processed what he heard and for the first time in—_days, weeks?_—Jack Aubrey felt driven, felt a moment of hopeful energy.

The _Turmoil_ was engaging—the thought registered in Jack's mind before he opened his bloodshot eyes—causing him to yank against his restraints in violent recognition—the familiar sounds of cannons being loaded—the rhythm of the calls albeit in French—and the thundering of forty men's running steps.

In his next breath, Jack Aubrey recognized the opportunity for escape. With newfound hope he examined the restraints above his head, shaking his numb arms, attempting to find a flaw in the construction, but his tip-toe only reach to the floor prevented much reconnaissance and these simple gestures of movement had soon winded him, sending his vision swimming in the light-headed sensations of starvation and sleeplessness.

Jack growled and yanked, and then just hung, swaying painfully in his cruel hold. If only he could get one foot further flat on the floor for leverage—if only, if on—  
It could have been three years in between this thought and the first round of cannon fire, but Jack knew it was only moments. Snapping to full attention again he demanded himself to stay sharp now, wait, listen, and hope the French ship be taken by friends, or at least toppled enough to gain him access to his restraints. One blow soon came close but the force of the cannonblow missing him by only inches.

Another, this one above him, showering him with splinters as it demolished the deck above him, his rope restraints along with it. Jack thudded to the floor, laid there for many seconds, assessing, listening. The rush of blood back into his limbs, bringing sweet heat—he savored the sensation, trying to work quickly through a plan—for the warmth was quickly turning to searing agony as feeling returned. Cradling his head from the fallout of another blast, he yanked a shard out of his right cheek, stanching the blood with his filthy shirtsleeve.

The cannon fire ceased; the scramble of bodies above him raged on, and through the now open roof above he could see—indeed—it was indeed another British ship brought to battle under Farrar's disguise. The familiar uniforms of the officers gave Jack a surge of relief. Suddenly on his feet, he called out above the racket, began climbing the wreckage. A blast of ocean air revived him. For a moment, he thought he might faint or cry at the devastating joy coursing through him—the reunion more soothing than any balm, more comforting than the embrace of any long-distance lover.

No sooner had he gulped the salty air and made to move toward a British officer dispatching with a French sailor than both of Jack's legs were iron-gripped and yanked so hard his hip popped. Jack clattered face-first to the deck below, and the relentless grip on his legs pulled him swiftly across it, into the darkness, the grey patch of sky disappearing from his upturned gaze. Rather than turn around to see his attacker, he stared at the sky until it was out of sight, soon replaced by the pitch darkness of the bowels of the ship.


End file.
